Chapter 42
The Gilded Circus
The rain continued to fall, its sonorous song a stage for stately sorrows.
Asher retreated to the keep, away from the gloom of the world, and in silence waited. The Stage was not ending--there were no notifications, and neither were there more monsters flooding the gates. He was alone, draped in effulgent silence. Thoughts swirled and swarmed, his heart besieged on all ends by questions... questions for which he did not have answers.
Every once in a while, he’d peer past through the open slits in the walls and toward the carnage outside, expecting it to be gone. But it was there, always there, a shattering reminder of what had transpired within the marred castle walls. His mind, thought by thought, began to reconcile it as reality--this wasn’t a theater play where he was temporarily an actor, where the stage would be redone anew for when his replacement arrived. This was reality, bound in chains of decay, frothing at the thought of a sunrise.
He closed his eyes and let his mind wander and drift.
Though it hadn’t been long, his life on Earth seemed like a distant, elusive thing. As though it was simply a ‘backstory’ to a man who lived here, to the person embodying now. And yet, he knew it was more than that. Those memories were still visceral, cutting deep like the sharp edge of a blade.
For a moment, he recalled Warren’s blood-soaked face and the eyes gasping for answers. Answers that they would never get.
Opening his own in concert with the roar of thunder, he saw that the world paused--the rain ceased falling midair, and the silence became truly deafening. However, there were no notifications--there was nothing. For a moment, only.
A pang of pain shot through him but, unlike the previous ones, it burned. It burned so much that he had no choice but to yelp in pain. It scorched throughout his entire body before darkness surged and covered the world, spitting him out a moment later.
He fell to his knees in agony, gasping for breath, slowly recognizing that he was no longer within the tattered keep. Murmurs were distant and hushed and unrecognizable, but there were voices. He was no longer alone.
Lifting his head, he saw that he was inside a massive, massive throne room.
The first thing he saw was the throne itself, embossed in golden light too holy to comprehend. It was elevated upon a dais, with a grand staircase leading up to it. Each step seemed to have been carved from the finest alabaster and inlaid with veins of coruscating ruby. The steps’ polished surfaces reflected the refulgent light of ornate candelabras that lined the walls.
Beyond them, the throne loomed--gilded dragons, with scales shimmering like liquid gold, coiled around the armrests, their eyes seemingly staring directly at Asher, set with polished yet sharp emeralds. The throne's splat shot up into the air, woven threads of gold forming patterns both pleasing and terrifying to the soul. He couldn't recognize them, not in the particulates, but could nonetheless admire them. They all converged into an arched cresting rail that angled downward, like divine arms providing a shielding canopy to all beneath them.
The splat was flanked by a pair of still, unmoving banners both depicting identical imagery--an open-palmed arm reaching toward something beyond, a kindling of light shimmering between their thin, aged fingers.
The throne itself was abutted with two similar balconies, both supported by ornate pillars of white marble veined with red-stained gold. Delicate wrought iron railings, fashioned in the shape of coiling and intertwining vines and mythical creatures, framed the platforms.
Far above, the ceiling arched into a dome, adorned with intricate frescoes depicting several hundred scenes altogether orbiting a singular one at the very center--that of a twisting, aged arm holding a wisp of milky-white light. Golden rays of sunlight filtered through the stained glass windows, a kaleidoscope of colors dancing across the marble floor, adding to the mythical surrealism.
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Asher felt an ant--and, in many ways, was an ant. This was the throne room of giants, not people. However, beyond the architecture itself, what stood out the most were the figures--no, they weren't even figures, just faint silhouettes. The 'person' seated upon the throne was entirely coated in a mystical array of golden, glimmering light, faintly outlining a seating frame, with the only visible and discernible part being a crown gemmed with each spike, round and vastly gilded.
The same case was for the silhouettes staking the balconies--fog and mist covered their features, though they were far less holy and awe-inspiring than the one upon the throne. In fact, from the masses, only two figures were wholly visible, and he recognized one of them: Qyne.
Except, here, she was no longer a finger-sized thing that could land on his nose and chirp incessantly about how much of a failure humans were. No, she seemed some four feet tall, draped in a flower-webbed dress of emerald green, sitting next to a woman who was a spitting image of her, just older and more mature.
It took him a moment to infer that this was the aforementioned Hallowed Court, most likely, and that he was brought here to make a choice. He felt a bit peeved that he’d nearly forgotten it, actually, and more than ever certain there wouldn’t be a choice. They’d make one for him, and force him to take it no matter what.
Suddenly, a figure appeared next to him--it was the Eagle that he hadn’t seen in a while, still wearing a dapper suit, and the creature first bowed deeply toward the throne before its beak parted and words streamed out.
“We hath gathered hither this day to enforce a Champion’s Choice. Your Majesty and the Revered Dignitaries, according to the Decree of her Lordship, the First Empress Saeylina, any direct interference with the Entrants may only be done so in a Champion’s Wager—and the greater the interference, the heavier the consequences. Her Divinity, Fairy Princess Qyne, hath directly installed a Bowman Giant upon forcibly entering an Entrant into an Arena, resulting in the three Choices. The first choice is one of enslavement—the Entrant shall have the capacity to command the Fairy Princess as he wills and, in the Bind of the Oath, she shall be unable to reject. The second choice is one of payment—Her Divinity, Fairy Queen Allona, hath graciously offered to reward the Entrant with an assortment of rewards. And, lastly, the third choice is one of execution—Her Divinity, Fairy Princess Qyne, shall be plucked to become Part of One, her essence devoured. As per the Decree of her Lordship, Her Divinity, Fairy Princess Qyne, shall have five minutes to speak with the Entrant, after which he may make his Champion’s Choice.”
The murmurs were... jeering, Asher noticed. There was a trance of gentle mockery within them, further encapsulated by Qyne’s sneering smile as she flew down from the balcony and landed in front of him. Though she wasn’t taller than a child, he had no choice but to acknowledge the certain level of regality bound within that tiny frame. Arms on hips, she looked down on him as she always did, eyes wholly cast in derision.
“I am curious,” she said. “How the hell did you defeat her?”
“... I didn’t,” Asher said, slowly standing up. However, he was immediately brought back down to his knees by an invisible force that disallowed him from moving any part of his body besides his lips. He couldn’t even lift his head to meet Qyne’s gaze any longer. “She... took pity on me. On account of me being human, like her.”
“Hah, typical. Ah, I suppose you did come out victorious, in a way. I bet, within that twisted head of yours, you are imagining enslaving me and taking out all that anger out on me when I can't resist, huh?"
“...”
“Ha ha ha, adorable! Truly, truly adorable!” her laughter echoed across the throne room, soon followed by a symphony of others. “Well, you do have a right to make that choice, of course. If you’re brave enough, that is. Are you, you waste of light? Are you brave enough to make that choice?”
“...”
"Be a good boy," she leaned down and whispered into his ear. "And take my Mother's Grace. After all, she's offering a whole 100 Souls and a Divine Gem, ha ha ha! Vastly more than your pathetic bodice of flesh deserves!"
“...” it was a sham--of course, it was a sham. Asher had already expected it. Qyne wouldn’t have done what she did without being certain she would suffer no consequences. Chances were, if he chose enslavement, any Stage he entered hereafter would become physically impossible, and he would be immediately killed. And the offer of payment was literally just a technicality--he was shocked that the ‘offer’ wasn’t just a single Soul. No, this was even more insulting.
This entire thing was a game--and their mocking laughter confirmed it.
“So,” he spoke at last. “Choosing enslavement means I’ll probably die in the next Stage, huh?”
“...” though she said nothing, he could practically hear her snide smile.
“Choosing to kill you would mean my death too, even if, through some ungodly fashion, you did actually die... which I highly doubt.”
“...”
“And choosing the payment is the smart way of washing this whole thing away.”
“... hah. You aren’t as severely stupid as I thought,” she chortled. “So? Are you ready to make your Champion’s Choice? Ha ha ha~~”
"Yeah," Asher said, gnashing his teeth till they began to crack within his jaw and using every ounce of his willpower to resist the pressure and lift his head, staring directly into her ire-filled eyes. This action yielded quite a few surprised gasps and caused even Qyne's face to distort into a strange expression. "And I choose... execution," his voice was soft, yet words echoed like thunder throughout the hall. "If it's a choice between dying no matter what because you are an insurmountable piece of subhuman garbage, and having the faintest of chances to die happy listening to your screams... fuck, it ain't even a choice, at that point. It's a death worth living for."